by Harold Coyle
Awkwardly, he continued. "I became separated from the company last night when the American jets came in. I went forward as soon as the helicopters lifted off. Unfortunately, the men did not follow, because of the jets and the air battle."
Ilvanich thought, You lying bastard. This company always follows. How convenient that the Americans provide a nice cover story.
Lvov, talking more to himself, went on. "When I found there was no one behind me, I went back to the landing site, but the company was gone.
Unable to find them, I attached myself to the regimental staff. I am glad to see that things were able to work themselves out."
For the first time Ilvanich thought of his commander as a coward. That anyone would believe his story was incredible. The two men stood and stared at each other for several seconds. Only the intervention of the battalion commander interrupted their private thoughts.
"Comrade Captain, the regimental commander wishes to see Lieutenant Ilvanich at regimental headquarters immediately."
Ilvanich turned to his battalion commander and asked why he had been summoned. His colonel replied that he did not know but that Ilvanich, Lvov and he had best go over and find out.
The three officers were greeted at the entrance of the airfield's administration building by a regimental staff officer, who escorted them to a conference room. Upon entering, Ilvanich froze. The entire regimental staff was assembled in the room, standing against the side walls. At the front of the room were the division commander and the regimental commander.
Between them were the regimental colors, guarded by two stern-faced paratroopers.
The regimental commander, standing at. attention, called out, "Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ilvaich, come forward. "
As he made his way past the unsmiling faces of the staff officers, he suddenly became painfully aware of his disheveled appearance and of the AK loosely slung over his shoulder and banging against his side. Once he was at the front of the room, the regimental commander guided Ilvanich to a position between him and the division commander. Behind Ilvanich were his regimental colors.
With a nod, the regimental commander signaled the regimental adjutant to begin.
"In recognition of his heroism and leadership during the capture of the airfield at Kerman, Junior Lieutenant Nikolai Ilvanich is being awarded the Order of the Red Star. Through his efforts and example, his men were able to seize the initiative, overcome numerically superior enemy forces and allow the regiment time to reinforce and capitalize on the success achieved by 3rd Company. Lieutenant Ilvanich's leadership and courage are of the highest order and deserving of the appreciation of the Soviet people and the Soviet Union."
Ilvanich was dumbfounded as the division commander pinned the medal on his tunic and congratulated him. Even more surprising was the division commander's announcement that it was high time Ilvanich was given the rank he deserved. On cue, the regimental adjutant handed two lieutenant's epaulets to the division commander, who in turn handed one to the regimental commander. The two commanders removed Ilvanich's junior lieutenant's epaulets and replaced them with the others. In the excitement of the moment, Ilvanich did not notice that there were bloodstains from the former owner on the "new" lieutenant epaulets. He was overwhelmed. Someone shoved a glass of vodka into his hand while the staff officers congratulated him and patted him on the back. The division commander, raising his glass high, offered a toast to the young hero.
For the moment, all was smiles. The 285th Airborne Regiment had again succeeded, by the narrowest of margins. It was time for a brief break from the stress of battle, the arduous task of burying its dead and preparing for the next battle. It was time for the victor to decorate its heroes and count its losses. A new battle streamer would be added to the regimental colors. New names would be inscribed in the regiment's roll of honor. The ofcers in the room were all smiles and good cheer. All except one man. As they drank up, Ilvanich saw his company commander across the room. He did not drink the toast. Lvov merely stood there, glaring at him. Waiting.
Rafsanjan, Iran 1935 Hours, 28 June (1605 Hours, 28 June, GMT)
The day had been long and difficult for the men of the 1st Platoon.
They had been on alert all day, waiting for an attack that never came.
Reports of Soviet activity just to the north of them and attacks at other points of the division's perimeter put the men on edge. Rumors that the airfield at Kerman had been overrun added to their nervousness.
Sergeant First Class Duncan's platoon leader had moved up and down the platoon line almost constantly all morning, checking the men, their positions and their equipment. It wasn't until noon that Duncan was finally able to convince him that all was in order and that the best thing he could do for the platoon was to settle down and wait, like everyone else.
Duncan was almost sorry that he had succeeded in settling the lieutenant down, because the lieutenant decided to stay with him in his foxhole. Every few minutes the lieutenant would ask a question about a noise or movement to their front, make a line check on the telephone that ran to the squad leaders, or check the action on his M-16 to ensure that it was functioning.
That had gone on all afternoon. Duncan could understand the lieutenant's nervousness. He was nervous himself. Still, Duncan wished his platoon leader would go away and bug someone else for a while.
North of Rafsanjan, Iran 1938 Hours, 28 June (1608 Hours, 28 June, GMT)
In little clusters the men of the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment waited for the attack to commence. All day they had waited, sitting in the open without cover or relief from the sun that beat upon them and their armored vehicles. Their first orders had been to attack immediately once they had made contact with the Americans. That had been changed, however, when a patrol accidentally alerted the Americans to their presence. With the element of surprise gone, the decision was made to conduct a deliberate attack rather than hit the Americans from the march.
Preparation for battle began shortly after dawn. Information concerning the location of American positions gained by the regimental recon unit as well as air recon was received at the regiment's headquarters. There it was carefully reviewed by the first officer, responsible for operations, the second officer, responsible for intelligence, and the artillery officer.
Based on that information, the three officers developed a plan of attack, a schedule of artillery fires and orders. The plan of attack incorporated the concepts of maneuver and shock. The motorized rifle battalions, reinforced by companies from the regimental tank battalion, provided the maneuver, while massed artillery would provide the shock.
Orders were issued to the attacking battalions and the follow-on units.
Details outlining the routes they would take from their assembly areas to the line of departure, their axis of advance, lines of deployment, intermediate and final objectives for the first attack echelon and follow-on echelons of the regiment were all addressed. They could have attacked sooner in the day, but it had been decided to hit just before dark. In that way, the first echelon battalions would be able to make the breakthrough during the daylight, while the exploitation force would be able to move forward and drive deep under the cover of darkness.
The artillery battalions supporting the regiment received their orders in the form of a schedule of fires, a detailed listing telling each battery of guns what targets it would fire on and when. Based on this schedule, the regimental and division artillery were brought forward and em placed along with ammunition required to fire the preparatory bombardment and other missions listed in the schedule of fires.
Carefully worked-out formulas specified how many rounds were required by each caliber of weapon to achieve the target effect desired. For this attack, besides the regiment's own 122mm. self-propelled artillery battalion and the heavy mortars of the battalions, two additional 122mm. artillery battalions, a 152mm. artillery battalion and a battalion of BM-21 multiple-rocket launchers were allocated for support. These units would be groupe
d together under the command of the regimental artillery officer into a regimental artillery group.
A twenty-minute preparatory bombardment would commence at 1940 hours.
American command posts, artillery units and key positions would be hit.
The preparatory bombardment would also cover the noise of the maneuver battalions as they deployed. In accordance with the schedule of fires, the artillery would shift their fires to selected targets at 2000 hours. Some of the batteries would concentrate on the Americans' forward positions to pin or destroy the defend drs Some batteries would fire smoke rounds to cover the attacking force. Other batteries would hit targets deep in the Americans' rear. The multiple-rocket launchers were to be held back for the purposes of counter battery fire and attacking command posts identified through radio direction-finding. As soon as the American artillery began to return fires, Soviet counter battery radar units would be able to locate where the American rounds originated and feed that data to the multiple-rocket-launcher batteries.
In the shadows of the setting sun, the 2nd Company, 1st Battalion, 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment, waited to move forward. Captain Neboatov had received his orders early in the afternoon. Along with the battalion commander and the other company commanders, they had gone as far forward as was prudent.
For Neboatov, the plan of attack was simple. It was, in fact, nothing more than the battle drill that they had been trained in and had used so effectively to date in Iran. The battalion would leave the assembly area in a column of companies. At a predesignated point, the battalion would split up and move, with each company on its own route. At a second point, the companies in turn would split off into platoon columns. Finally, at the line of deployment, the two lead companies would deploy into a line with the tanks in the lead, followed by BMPs of the rifle companies. Neboatov's company was the second echelon for the battalion, which meant he would follow the battalion command group and be prepared to replace one of the two lead companies or punch through, if one of them succeeded, to the battalion's final objective of the day.
While the battalion was moving forward and the artillery bombardment was going in, Neboatov's company would unfold from the march column into the line of attack. Neboatov had no doubt that his men would be able to execute their maneuvers without a hitch. This would be the third breakthrough attack that the battalion had conducted since the war with Iran had begun.
What concerned Neboatov was the unknown quality of the American fighting man.
Since his days as a cadet he had studied American tactics, society, culture, politics and history. While the books provided clear, concise answers as to American tactics and equipment, some of the more informed instructors always cautioned that the Americans were a strange race of people who did not follow norms. Nor were they a predictable breed.
Their history and politics were filled with contradictions and strange actions and reactions to world events. In one instance, they allowed the Iranians to hold their embassy for 444 days without doing anything.
Within a few years, they turned around and launched an invasion of a tiny island country simply because the government had changed. One passage that Neboatov had read summed up the problem by stating: "One of the serious problems in planning against American doctrine is that the Americans do not read their manuals nor do they feel any obligation to follow their doctrine." The American fighting man, a product of that unpredictable society and philosophy, was an unknown that Neboatov and his men now had to meet and deal with.
For the fourth time in as many minutes, Neboatov raised his left arm and glanced at his watch: 1939 hours. Sixty seconds. The die was cast. All was set, all planned. Now all they had to do was execute the plan. How simple that seemed. How awfully bloody and simple.
Rafsanjan, Iran 1940 Hours, 28 June (1610 Hours, 28 June, GMT)
The sound of fifty-four howitzers, eighteen heavy mortars and eighteen multiple-rocket launchers firing simultaneously appeared to the 1st Platoon as a distant rumble, like a thunderstorm far away. The lieutenant, nodding off to sleep in Duncan's foxhole, opened his eyes and asked what the rumbling was. Duncan, peering out to the side of the foxhole's parapet, replied casually, "Artillery. I think they're-"
The whine of large-caliber artillery projectiles passing overhead and the impact of 120mm. mortars on the platoon's positions cut Duncan's answer short. The sudden overpressure of near-misses hit all those in his foxhole like a sledgehammer. The clear evening air was corrupted with dust, smoke and fumes. Across the front the men of 1st Platoon cowered in the depth of their foxholes, foxholes that suddenly seemed dangerously shallow. The shock of their initiation to combat was a fearful and lonely experience as each man withdrew into himself in an effort to survive or block out reality. Combat, long prepared for and discussed, was upon them.
Within seconds, the impact of individual mortar and artillery rounds was no longer distinguishable. A steady pounding and an unending chain of detonations dulled the men's senses. Dust and fumes settled down in the bottom of the foxholes where the men sought escape. Those who had presence of mind tied handkerchiefs or bandanas over their noses and mouths. Those lost to panic simply gagged and choked. Eardrums shattered and bled. Men no longer able to control themselves defecated and urinated where they sat, crouched in the corner of their foxholes.
Minute after minute the pounding continued. Steady, unending, terrifying. The sobs of men broken by the experience of their initiation to battle could not be heard above the din of explosions by the men next to them.
For the lucky, death came quickly. The probability of a mortar round landing right on top of a foxhole is slim. But even when the odds are a thousand to one, there is always that one.
Fire enough rounds in a small area, and probability begins to take its toll. The overhead cover that protected the men of 1st Platoon did well to stop shell fragments but was sadly insufficient when a direct hit was scored. When the shell's fuse setting was on super quick action, the round detonated as soon as it touched ground. In those cases, the force of the explosion rammed the overhead cover that was meant to protect the foxhole's occupants down on top of them, crushing or burying them. When the shell's fuse setting was on delayed action, the shell penetrated the overhead cover and detonated in the foxhole among the occupants. Death was instantaneous. All signs that the foxhole had once been occupied by humans were eradicated in a twinkling of an eye.
In this manner, 1st Platoon, B Company, 3rd of the 503rd Infantry, received its baptism of fire.
The speed of the attacking columns began to pick up as Neboatov's company moved into the open. Neboatov elected to remain standing in the hatch of his BMP, to better control his company and maintain his orientation. It was dangerous but necessary; buttoned up, he was as good as blind. To his front he could see the regiment's preparatory artillery bombardment going in. He was impressed. The entire forward slope of the far ridge was exploding.
That anything could live through that seemed unlikely. But there would be survivors, survivors that he would have to deal with.
The battalion was now moving forward at a steady pace of twenty-four kilometers an hour. The lead companies remained in platoon columns, BMPs following the tanks with mine plows and rollers attached to them.
Obstacles that had taken hours to emplace would be brushed aside with little effect.
Neboatov held the hatch cover firmly as his BMP rolled forward and hit bump after bump. With skill born of practice, his body swayed instinctively to maintain balance while he watched the advance of his company and the progress of those in the lead. The artillery to his front stopped. Neboatov looked at his watch: 2000 hours. The initial barrage was over. Time for the guns to shift to their next targets.
The stunned silence was welcome but frightening. For a moment Duncan sat and listened. Then, with his body pressed against the front wall, he slowly began to rise to peer over the lip of the foxhole. The dust hung in the air like fog. At first he could see nothing. Slowly, in the dist
ance, he could make out the images of the advancing Soviet armored columns, moving forward as if on parade. As he watched, Duncan was conscious of the lieutenant next to him. At first neither said a word, they only watched. Then the lieutenant moved away from the front wall and began to climb out of the foxhole. In confusion, Duncan called out, "Where're you going, Lieutenant?"
Without stopping or turning back, the lieutenant shouted, "I–I gotta get back to my position. Call for artillery."
"Get back here in the hole. You'll never make it. The bastards are only shifting fires." Duncan turned and lunged to grab the lieutenant's leg, but missed. The lieutenant climbed out of the hole and stood upright just as the first round of the next artillery barrage impacted.
The explosions hammered Duncan down to the bottom of his hole. He stayed there for a moment, then rose to see what had become of the lieutenant. The first sight that greeted him was a hand hanging over the lip of the foxhole. The fingers, forming a half-clenched fist, twitched and jerked randomly. Then Duncan saw the lieutenant, lying on his back. His right arm reached out toward Duncan and quivered. His face, turned up to the sky, also quivered in spasms. There seemed to be no wounds. Perhaps he was simply stunned. With a single boost, Duncan pulled himself out of the hole so that he could help his lieutenant.
In an instant, he knew he couldn't. The entire left side of the lieutenant's body was a bloody pulp. From his thigh to his face the lieutenant's body was shattered and covered with bright-red blood that oozed from innumerable wounds. Bone and organs lay exposed in the dirt. The sight of the half man overcame Duncan's last reserves of self-control. Involuntarily he vomited as he leaned over the remains of his lieutenant, adding his own vile fluids to the gore before him. Only the intervention of the radio operator who shared the foxhole with Duncan and who pulled him back down saved him from sharing his lieutenant's fate.
With the smokescreen in place and the battalion clear of the mine field, it was time to deploy into line and commence the final assault.